I'm Satisfied With My Care
by L.C. Li
Summary: Looking down the barrel of a gun really snaps your world into perspective. Hiro and Baymax.


**I'm Satisfied With My Care****  
><strong>_by L.C. Li_

::-::

Deep breath. Easy. Keep your heart rate down. Hyperventilating will alert Baymax. Sweat will alert Baymax.

You squirm against your ropes, watching as _he_ paces in front of you, examining Baymax with the dark glint in his eye that just makes your stomach churn with dread. There's nothing in this dark, dank warehouse. No avenue of escape, no savior, no chance of survival.

"Fancy robot here," the man before you calls.

You know what he's thinking, because you've thought it before. _A perfect killing machine, here, in my hands. Just add a psychopathic chip._

But Baymax can't be that way. You won't _let_ him be that way.

"So," he says presently, leaning his lanky frame against the wall. "A robot. Completely programmable. Intelligent. Unmatched potential for analytical judgment."

"Get away from him." You spit the words out past your two broken teeth. Blood flies from the corner of your mouth.

He only smirks at you, poking at Baymax's squishy exterior. Baymax blinks and tilts his head, as if fully unaware that he is being touched by San Fransokyo's most wanted criminal. A criminal that you thought you could catch... but only caught you.

"Nice suit." He kicks at the fragments of blood-red armor that are scattered across the ground. Detached, perfectly, as if they were deactivated remotely by an electric transmission that you didn't even know existed. Oh, wait, they were. "He'll pack a punch with this one."

"You can't have him."

The man's amused air vaporizes. In a single heartbeat, he reaches into his jacket, jabbing the back of his pistol right against your forehead. You don't want to wince, but you can't help it. "I'm getting tired of your little party pooping, Hiro Hamada. Don't forget why you're still alive."

"Pardon if my memory suffers. I'm in a mildly traumatic situation."

He jabs at Baymax, who glances from you to your bonds to the man. You know that Baymax knows that something is _wrong_. You also know that there's no way out. "You'll watch him destroy San Fransokyo. Obviously."

"Gee, you're original." You tease because you're terrified. And there's nothing else to do.

"I don't have to be original. I'm the one with power." He smirks at you, sinking into his chair. "You can say your last words to your programmable friend."

"How nice of you."

"Well, he's a robot. Not like he could understand you anyway."

But the man doesn't know Baymax. The man doesn't see the glimmer of life that you've seen in Baymax's Tadashi chip. He hasn't experienced Baymax's adaptability to social or emotional situations, and he certainly hasn't witnessed that unconditional devotion that Baymax has shown you.

No. He just slips a dying cigarette between his teeth, grinning emptily at you as your mind speeds beyond your comprehension.

"Baymax," you say, and your voice squeaks. The man chuckles, and you clear your throat. "Baymax, thank you."

"Your heart rate is rising, indicating that you are nervous about any upcoming—"

"I'm satisfied, Baymax."

The man rolls his eyes in boredom and lowers his head against his desk. Bored. Good. You fix your eyes to Baymax's, hoping beyond hope that somehow, his electronic circuits and binary code can deduce you.

And he does. You absently wonder if Tadashi put a piece of himself if that chip, because Baymax deduces you, and his eyes narrow just slightly and you can tell he does _not_ approve, like Tadashi did whenever he caught you beating up some hapless, pompous ignorant in a bot fight.

"Your decision is unwise, Hiro."

"Too bad that I've already made it."

"I would strongly recommend against—"

"I'm doing this whether you want it or not." You place your feet against the slimy ground. Emphatically.

"Please do not." The plea is flat from his monotone voice. Somehow, it sounds all the more heartbreaking.

You straighten your shoulders. Your mind was made before you were brought to this warehouse.

"I'm satisfied with my care."

Baymax releases a whine, a gut-wrenching, keening siren that reverberates through the basement as he collapses inward, pulling his inflatable skin into its rightful place. The red case fixes over him, snapping shut with a lonely finality.

The man leaps from his chair, eyes flashing with unsettling rage. "What did you do?!"

You smirk. "I sent him home."

The man paces frantically around the box. Kicks it. Prods it. Shoots it, which makes you wince, but the casing is bulletproof. Starts singing, dancing, screaming. Like the final trigger to his insanity.

"You should try to find the key phrase," you call out. Trying to enjoy your last moments, rather than spend them in terror.

The man snarls past his teeth. "Arise. Waken. Open sesame! Password! Abracadabra!"

You start laughing, laughing so hard that you're crying, and then you're crying because your lungs are heaving against your bruised ribs and it _hurts_. But you refuse to say "ow." You'll never say "ow."

He notices your amusement and swivels around, jamming the gun against your head.

"Tell me how to get him back!" he seethes.

You tighten your jaw.

He slams you across the face with the cold, metal barrel, drawing blood from your cheekbone. It leaks down to your chin like a scarlet tear. Your vision blurs and your world spins, but you keep upright. And, most importantly, not a sound passes your lips.

"Fine." He reaches into his cloak, withdrawing a crooked knife stained red. "We'll do this the hard way. Tell me how to activate him."

"No," you bite out.

"One finger for each refusal," he says, holding the weapon menacingly over your hand.

You stay silent.

The knife slices down.

You refuse to scream in pain.


End file.
